What Doesn't Kill You (A Suspense Collection) (5 page)

“I’m not going to drink it, Ted. If you put some poison
in the bottle, I won’t drink it. I’m not stupid.”

“Of course, you’re stupid. You tried to kill me. After
all I’ve done for you. After all I’ve done for our family. Instead of simply
enjoying life, you decided to take it all.”

Their eyes met. Nora suddenly looked ten years older.

16.

Two glasses was what it took.

When Nora fell asleep, Ted suddenly felt a pang in his
chest. It was as if his heart had bumped into a cactus. Then his head became
hot, and a tiny tear came out of his right eye. He didn’t know what to call the
feeling that had overcome him. Sadness? Regret? Shock? A little bit of this and
a little bit of that, maybe.

Nora turned out to be an honorable woman, after all.
She was capable of feeling guilt, which was quite rare nowadays. He respected
that.

There was no remorse, though. He had done the right
thing, and Nora had realized that, too.

She might have thought he was bluffing about the
tranquilizer, by the way. She might have thought she would just get inebriated
and wake up with a headache. But it was a moot point now.

Holding the cellphone in his right hand, Ted fixed his
eyes on his Rolex. He was cautious enough to admit that his wife might be
critical to the success of his idea. Nora knew about his plan, and,
theoretically, she could be the one who was going to ensure that future
generations of Duplasses remembered Ted’s instructions.

As Pete’s poisoning had demonstrated, the mix of
alcohol and a tranquilizer didn’t kill quickly. Ted had about ten minutes to
call the ambulance and thus prevent Nora from dying. He only needed five to
determine if Nora had to live.

Ted let out a relieved sigh. The Rolex hadn’t
evaporated as he had feared; it was still on his wrist, pleasantly heavy. And
the living room had not disappeared either. Ted sprinted to the window and
looked outside. Nora’s Mercedes and his Range Rover were still sitting in the
driveway.

Ted dialed 911 one hour after Nora stopped breathing.
He had no trouble sounding shocked and devastated as he spoke to the operator.

17.

There was a new email from Nick in the inbox when Ted
came home from Nora’s funeral. The message read:

‘Ted Duplass was killed by Kenneth Shelton, 27, on
January 6, 2014.

I found your time capsule.

Nick Duplass.’

Ted raised his eyebrows, highly intrigued. Then he took
a deep breath and exhaled slowly a moment later.

Maybe his efforts to avoid death were futile. Was it
even possible for him to change his fate? That was an interesting question.

Look on the bright side: he knew what was going to
happen to him, and that was half the battle.

Kenneth Shelton, 27.

27 must be the guy’s age. Good thing Nick had put this
detail in the email: it would help avoid a bloodbath in the style of King
Herod, who had ordered the execution of all young boys in Bethlehem to get baby
Jesus and thus save his throne. How many Kenneth Sheltons were there in
America? Probably thousands.

Ted wished Nick had provided more information about his
future killer—his address, for example. Or his date of birth, at least.

King Herod, huh?

By the way, was it going to be a premeditated murder or
some sort of accident? This Shelton guy could turn out to be the driver of the
semi-truck that would smash into Ted’s car on the 6th
of January,
2014. Or maybe he mistook Ted for a deer during a hunt.

One thing was certain: Kenneth Shelton had to go. Two
months was plenty of time to take care of this guy. The best defense is
offence, right? He already had the gun, so he might as well use it.

What if it didn’t end on Kenneth Shelton? What if Nick
emailed him another name after he bumped off Shelton? He would have to dispatch
that person, too.

How many times was Ted planning to repeat this? The
answer was simple: he would keep doing it until he received an email that said
he would die of old age. That was the kind of death Ted desired. Death of old
age. Very old age. Triple-digit age. By the way, he should ask Nick to figure
out a way to send him a life-prolonging drug that would let him live to be a
hundred and fifty; they would surely have these in 2223. These pills would
probably cost as much as a house, but it was okay—his boy Nick Duplass must be
loaded.  

A wild thought flashed in Ted’s mind. What if Nick was
playing with him? What if Kenneth Shelton was just some random name Nick had
pulled out of his ass?

Ted shooed this thought away. Why would Nick do that?
He was correct about Nora, remember? She had indeed tried to murder him; that
was an irrefutable fact.

Ted lowered himself into the chair, switched on the
laptop, and started typing. He was finished two and a half minutes later.

‘Dear Nick,

Thank you for the information. I hope you’re doing
well.

You mentioned Kenneth Shelton in your last message.
What is his address? What is his date of birth? What is his social security
number? Can you send me his picture?

Ted Duplass, October 29, 2013.’

Yeah, he sucked at writing letters, but who the hell
cared? Ted clicked the Print button.

A few seconds later, Ted took the letter from the
printer, folded it in half, and dropped it in the time capsule. Then he printed
his first message to Nick—the one with the death question—and put it in the
capsule, too.

Ted was glad he had purchased a metal detector. He
would have spent hours looking for the old capsule without it. Once again, his
instincts proved right.

He screwed the cover on the time capsule and headed for
the garage.  

Fuck fate. He was going to kick this bitch in the face
until it got tired of trying to kill him.

THE END

THE DREAMER

A
psychiatrist discovers that a man claiming that the world is just a dream could
be right.

1.

“No, you’re not real, either,” Richard said. “You’re a
product of my imagination just like everyone and everything else.”

“So the entire world is just a dream?”

Richard nodded confidently. “Yes, just a dream. But not
an ordinary dream. It’s what I call a high definition dream.”

“High definition?”

“Yes. Did you notice how crisp, how vivid and detailed
everything looks here?”

“Actually, I wanted to mention that, too. Dreams do
tend to be somewhat blurry.”

“No surprise at all. We think alike because your
thoughts come from me.”

“I see.” Stanley made a note in his notepad.

“You know what I call reality?”

“Shoot.”

“God HD.” Richard laughed softly.

“Clever.” Stanley bit on his pen. “And you are the one
who’s dreaming this dream?”

“Yes, Sir. The entire thing comes courtesy of my
fertile mind.”

Stanley took a moment to process what Richard had told
him in the last two minutes.

The guy was either a genuine schizophrenic, or a bored
jackass with too much free time on his hands. Anyway, as long as his insurance
company paid the bills, Stanley was ready to listen to his drivel till the cows
came home.

“How long do you think you’ve been dreaming?”

“Good question, Doc. This is a very long dream. It
could be many years since it started.”

“And in all those years, this dream’s never been
interrupted?”

“Never.” Richard paused. “I suspect it’s a permanent
dream.”

“What do you mean?”

“In all likelihood my dream will never end.”

“I guess it’s good news for all of us living here.”
Stanley flashed a thin smile. Richard’s face remained serious. Then Stanley
went on, “Where is your real, physical body, Richard? Do you know what happened
to it?”

Richard shrugged. “Perhaps, buried in the cemetery. Or
maybe it’s in one of those cryogenic freezers, waiting to be revived a hundred
years from now.”

“How did you discover that you’re living in a dream?
Why did you question reality in the first place?”

“I’m glad you asked. You see, Doc, I’ve been curious
about this matter for many many years. Back in high school, I read about this
French mathematician by the name of Rene Descartes, who lived in the
seventeenth century. He said that the sensations we experience in our dreams
feel as real to us as those we experience while we’re awake. Therefore, any
beliefs based on sensations could be called into doubt, because it all might be
a dream. The logical conclusion was that the whole world could be nothing but
an illusion. And ever since I became familiar with this proposition, I’ve been
regularly wondering, especially when I was having some kind of trouble: is this
world still real or am I stuck in a dream?”  

Richard glanced at Stanley to see if he had any
comments; Stanley had none.

“My dad was a very skeptical man,” Richard went on. “He
said that until he saw or touched
it
, he reserved the right to doubt
that
it
existed. I remember him telling me that Australia might not be
real. ‘I’ve never been there,’ he’d say. ‘How do I know it’s not just a fairy
tale? They call it the land of Oz, don’t they? What if it’s nothing but a
stupid hoax the government’s playing on us?’ I’d tell him that you can’t
question every single thing in the world. And he’d say, ‘Why the hell not? You
can’t blindly believe what you’re told. Always look for proof. People used to
think that Earth sat on the backs of four elephants. How dumb is that?’”

“So how did you find out that everything around you is
not real?”

“It didn’t happen quickly. It was a series of
observations I made over a week or so. First, I noticed that every single movie
I saw completely lacked originality. None of them was anything that I couldn’t
have written myself. The same went for every fiction book I read and every TV
show I watched. Nothing surprised me anymore. Literally nothing.” Richard
paused. “I was looking for something that would make me say, ‘Wow, this is
brilliant. I couldn’t have thought of it myself.’ Unfortunately, everything I
came across was predictable, derivative. I stopped being amazed.” He rubbed his
chin thoughtfully. “Every science book I looked at contained information I
already knew. To me, that was one of the most convincing pieces of evidence
that I’d fallen into a dream.”

“Are you a scientist?” A moment later Stanley corrected
himself, “Were you a scientist before you fell asleep?”

“I was involved in research, so yes, you could call me
a scientist.”

“And you know everything in every science book there
is?”

Richard nodded silently. To Stanley’s amusement, the
man managed to keep an absolutely straight face.

“So, to put it briefly, your theory is based on the
fact that nothing impresses you anymore and that you know everything there is
to know, is that correct?”

“That’s what gave me the first clue. But you must admit
it’s nothing to sneeze at. In the real world, it’s impossible for one man to
possess the entirety of human knowledge and creativity.”

“I can’t disagree with that.”

“There were other signs, too. For example, one day I
crashed into a concrete wall while driving on the freeway. I was going more
than seventy miles per hour when it happened, but the next day I didn’t have a
scratch on me and my car was in perfect shape. The hardest part here was to
remember that I’d been in a crash the day before.” Richard cleared his throat.
“Yes, the trick to figuring out that you’re dreaming is to recall that
something weird took place and to have the sense to realize it was weird. It
appears every character who lives here is unable to retain the memories that
could help them make the same discovery I did. It’s probably by design, I don’t
know.”

“Character?”

“That’s what I call people who live in my world.”

“People are just characters to you? That’s cold.”

“You don’t have to like me, Doc. I’m not trying to
start a cult dedicated to me, although I’m one of the few who actually deserve
it. I’m just reporting the facts.”

“I understand.”

“And then I jumped off the roof of that ten-story
building across the street from here.”

“The Allied Bank building?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“And you survived the jump, of course.”

“The next morning I was as good as new.”

“Fascinating.” Stanley scribbled in his notepad. “Why
did you decide to come to me?”

“Boredom, I guess.”

“Is it possible that you have doubts about your
theory?”

Richard shook his head. “You know, I’ve always wondered
if my dream’s characters have their own lives, their own thoughts and
feelings.”

“Well, let me satisfy your curiosity. I do have my own
life and thoughts.”

Richard smiled. “How do you know that those thoughts
were not planted by me?”

“Touché!”

Richard leaned back and crossed his legs. “If I indeed
managed to create characters sophisticated enough to have their own thoughts
and feelings and to come up with some sort of daily grind, that would make me
feel like…” Richard creased his forehead, looking for the right word.

“Like God?”

Richard’s lips stretched in a thin smile. “You said
that, not me. But yes, I guess that’s how it would make me feel.”

How many months of therapy was this gentleman going to
need?

No, wrong question. How many years of therapy was he
looking at?

“Your registration form says that you’re a judge at the
Richmond Circuit Court,” Richard said.

“I made it up. I’m not a judge. I have a very
superficial knowledge of the law. I used to dream of becoming a judge when I
was younger. Even when I was finishing my PhD program, I still entertained this
idea. And now that I’m dead, I can be anything I want, can’t I?”

“You sure can.”

“Oh, I was curious, Doc. What medical school did you go
to?”

“I got my medical degree from Michigan State. Why are
you curious about it? You have doubts in my competence?”

“No, that’s not it. You see, it was me who gave you
your background, and to tell you the truth, I’m not particularly knowledgeable
about medical schools. I’m not sure the real world Michigan State University
even has a medical school.”

“Of course it does. I studied there.”

“Well, unfortunately, there’s no way to independently
verify that.”

“Come on, are you telling me that I printed this off
the Internet?” Stanley pointed his thumb at the framed diploma hanging on the
wall behind him.

“No, not at all. I’m just saying that in the real world
this piece of paper might be completely worthless.”

“I see.” Stanley took a sip of water from his glass and
continued, “Let me return to the characters of your dream. You believe that I’m
just an imaginary figure, right?”

“Yes.”

“And all those people in the streets are imaginary,
too?”

“Yes. They’re mental replicas, just like you.”

“And my family? They’re not real either?”

“That’s correct. They’re not real.” Richard raised his
left hand. “I have an idea, Doc. Let’s conduct an experiment. Call your son.
Let’s see if he exists.”

Their eyes met, and they stared silently at each other
for a few seconds, which was enough time for Stanley to realize that Richard
was not joking. Having quickly weighed all pros and cons, Stanley nodded and
said, “Okay. Let’s call him.” He took out his cell and opened the contact list.

“What’s your son’s name?” Richard asked.

“Derek.” Stanley dialed his son’s number and pressed
the speaker button so they could both hear Derek’s voice.

“How old is he?”

“He’s nineteen.”

The phone rang a third time, and Stanley reckoned Derek
was going to answer any second now.

“Are you married?”

“Yes. My wife’s name is Gina.”

A fifth ring. Stanley shifted in his chair, being
acutely aware of how embarrassing and awkward the situation was getting.

“He’s not picking up,” Richard announced in a satisfied
tone.

“Just a second, okay? He’ll pick up.”

A sixth ring.

“Are you sure you dialed the right number?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“It’s okay, Doc,” Richard said. “There’s nothing to be
ashamed of.”

The answering service picked up the call, and Stanley
hung up. Knitting his brows, Stanley glanced at his watch and said,
“Unfortunately, our time is up. I will see you next week, Richard.”

“See you next week, Doc. It was fun, by the way.”

2.

On the way home after work, Stanley caught himself
worrying that he might not see Gina tonight—or ever again. What if Richard was
right and his wife was a figment of imagination? Of course, it was not a
serious concern—rational people didn’t doubt that the universe is real—but he
still couldn’t shake it off.

Stanley reined in his anxiety by the end of the trip.
He didn’t panic when he saw that his house was empty. As soon as he found
himself in his study, he did what he’d forgotten to do after his first session
with Richard a week ago: he went online and checked if there was a judge by the
name of Richard Marshall in the Richmond Circuit Court. Then Stanley searched for
Judge Marshall’s photo and was relieved to find out that the man had not lied
on the registration form; his name really was Richard Marshall and he indeed
was a judge.

Then he called his son. Derek was a freshman at
University of Southern California, majoring in business administration. Stanley
didn’t mind Derek not following in his steps.

The uneasiness returned once Stanley pulled his
cellphone out of his pants pocket. He was afraid of a repeat of the fiasco that
had taken place during his session with Richard Marshall, and he was irked with
himself for that. The fact that Derek had not answered his call should not have
discomfited him the way it had. He was a rational person, after all.

Fortunately, his fear did not come true.

“Where were you, Derek?” Stanley asked in a noticeably
upset voice. “Why didn’t you answer the phone when I called you three hours
ago?”

“I was in class. Was it something important? Why didn’t
you text?”

Oh brother. Derek always tried to shift the blame to
someone else.

“Next time I call, you pick up the phone, okay?”